Roses litter the footpath, curling up as if in agony where they’ve been trampled by passers-by. Their petals are brown at the edges, cut and bruised and betrayed, cut loose from the place they once flourished.
Where does the circle of life start and end?
When do these roses find their way back to the ground, to the soil, and give life to something new, if not by being trampled?
Why do we see them as broken and useless, when they are valuable forever?